


Field Notes

by MistCover



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-adjacent, F/F, Femslash, First Meetings, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, mercy starts out cold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:59:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistCover/pseuds/MistCover
Summary: For Combat Medic Ziegler, there is no possibility of a relationship. Between studying to stay up to date on the bleeding edge of medicine, frequent missions all over the world, and a packed ‘downtime’ schedule of appointments, Angela has no time for such frivolity like romance. It's entirely impossible. Unthinkable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone it's been years since I wrote fanfic! Been cutting my teeth on original works and also on writing for my Changeling LARP. I think I've improved significantly since I last wrote for Homestuck... at least I hope.  
> Commissions: open again! See below.

Today is a very quiet day. I’ve had a steady stream of checkups since I came in to work at seven, and everyone checked out fine, besides the odd sniffle or headache. I took an entire half hour for lunch, and caught up on some journals I’ve been meaning to read. I’ve even had time to reorganize my desk. It was all going so well- and then Tracer came hobbling in, supported by Genji and grimacing with every step. I internally rolled my eyes, and set to work. 

Fifteen minutes later, I’m reviewing her labs on my holopad, eyes scanning methodically over abbreviations and numbers.

“How do you have time to take care of all of us, luv?” Tracer asks, voice as bright and cheery as ever. I glance up from my holopad to look at her, sitting up on the uncomfortable, thinly padded medical table. She’s wearing the paper gown like she was made for it, and her tousled hair manages to look chic, rather than just messy. I put a hand up to my own ponytail, self conscious. 

“Perhaps that is a question best answered by you, Lena,” I reply, bemused. Tracer lets out a huff of air, blowing some of her errant strands out of her eyes. 

“I don’t know everything ‘bout time! Can I go yet? I got a wager with Winston that you’d let me out before dinner.” Tracer’s accent is so thick, I can sometimes hardly believe English is in fact her native language. She kicks her bare feet, looking around the sparse room. I keep my medical bay almost obsessively organized, never leaving a single paper out of place. I don’t have any decorations, either- no family to pin to my walls, no memorable vacations to commemorate. All of my memories exist in photography on my computer, or, in some special cases, tacked to Winston’s own monitor. 

“How would you rate your pain?” I ask, my voice clipped.

“Eh, two?” Tracer says, still moving. Her accelerator rests quietly next to the table I’d been working on her on. Its gentle thrum is the only background noise in this room, and its soft, pulsating glow adds a little softness to the harsh white lights. I sigh, walking over to her and kneeling to cradle her injured ankle. She rotates it without a wince of discomfort, and goes through the motions of pushing and pulling against my gloved hand. 

“Then I would say you’ve only pulled a muscle. Nothing on your scan makes me think you tore anything, and your pain has gone down significantly with a mild anti inflammatory. Tell me again how you got this?” I continue my ministrations, injecting a steroid mixed with a few healing nanobots into her. She doesn’t really need it, per se, but I know Tracer. No matter how many warnings I give her, she’ll be out on the track running the minute I release her from the medical bay. Her poor muscle needs all the help it can get. She twitches at the needle, but otherwise cooperates without complaint. 

“I was practicing with Genji. He jumped, I blinked, and I landed bad enough that I could’ve sworn I broke something!” She reaches down and rubs the spot I poked. I shake my head a little, getting back up and disposing of the sharp. 

“Then you know by now what I’m going to tell you. Don’t run on it, put some ice on it, and take an evening off in your quarters. I’d put a compression bandage on you, for good measure, but I don’t want to compromise your blood flow when the medicine wears off,” I explain for the thousandth time. 

“Roger! Thanks, Doc, I’ll--”

Athena’s alarm goes off, blaring and bright. There’s a brief moment of stunned confusion, and then the sound of sprinting boots, men and women shouting at each other, barking orders and acknowledging them.

“ _Unauthorized entry, third level. Unauthorized entry, third level._ ” Athena’s artificial voice comes over the speakers, calm and unconcerned. 

Tracer leaps up from the table, grabbing her accelerator. She doesn’t bother with the straps, instead tossing it over her head and onto her chest to let it dangle loosely. Three blinks later and she’s dressed, accelerator strapped on, guns in hand. She looks at me, almost apologetic, and then is gone with another flash of blue light. I grab my caduceus staff from the wall, deciding not to bother with the full suit. It’s not like there’s many places to fly in this building.

I take off at a run. Once I’m in the hallway, the alarm is louder, brighter, and the people are just as noisy. They make room for me as I rush by them. They know that if they want their agents alive, they need me, my staff, and my ability to rewind death itself at the scene ten minutes ago. It’s muscle memory to make it to the stairs. From there, I take them down two at a time- _maybe just the extra wing-only harness would’ve been worth it_ , I think bitterly, as I round the fourth flight. I burst into the third floor’s main hallway, following the crowd to the scene of the attack.

By the time I arrive, it’s over. A handful of omnic corpses lay strewn near the broken window they used as an access port. Tracer is leaning most of her weight on her good foot, staying alert, arms out. A small flock of agents are huddled in a corner, obscuring what I assume is the wounded. 

“Out of my way, please,” I say, advancing steadily, showing no fear. If the omnics have backup, or- God forbid- a video feed operating under a discreet power source, I cannot afford to give the impression that my arrival signals an all-clear. The other agents rush out of my way, giving me a clear view. I ready my staff...

And then immediately lower it again. They were huddled around a corpse. My augmented vision doesn’t even show a rounded, golden soul hovering above the fallen agent, meaning that even if I had all my supplies on me, he’s too far gone to save. Like the omnics, he is still, and silent, and rapidly growing cold. 

“Verdammt,” I sigh. I approach the former agent, whose name tag identifies him as Daher, and close his eyes with two of my fingers. Years ago, I would’ve said something comforting to the other agents. I would’ve tried to ease their pain as well. Now? It’s just tiring. Another body, like the hundreds before him, and the thousands that will come. 

“Is he gonna make it, Angela?” Tracer asks, her voice strained. 

“He’s dead,” I say, my tone dispassionate, as cold as the omnic’s dead hull. I point to one of the agents who had been guarding the body. “You- get Winston and Commander Morrison. Tracer, go back to the medical bay and get me a collapsible stretcher and a sheet.” Lena’s gone in a blink, and the assigned officer touches his earpiece, still wide eyed. They must be a new detail, then. That means we’ve been under surveillance. They attacked a window with new guards, guards who wouldn’t know how to see it coming, who are still too fresh to have the cold, dispatched temperament necessary to put a bullet in the head of another being without hesitation.

“Doctor…” one of the others starts. I snap my head up. He’s bleeding, bad, from the chest. I take my staff in hand, point it at him, and engage the golden light. He starts as his wound closes on itself, stitching together and stopping the bleeding. It’s a temporary fix, at best, but almost no one knows it. In the field, they’re happy enough to not be bleeding out and relatively comfortable. On base, it’s never more than a stabilizing band-aid, and they never notice they’re still wounded until I’ve patched them up. People are remarkably gullible. If they’re not bleeding actively, it’s almost impossible to convince them they’re hurt. 

“Get to the medical bay. I’ll be with you shortly.” I’m not going to win any awards for bedside manner, but the man does what I told him to do. Tracer reappears, clicking on the hardlight stretcher, which expands in front of us into a plain, but functional, unit. Together, silently, we lift the corpse, arranging it on the stretcher and covering it with the sheet she brought. There will be paperwork to do. Forms to fill. Family to call. I focus on my job. That’s all I can ever really do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all I'm on vacation but posting this from mobile so you don't have to wait :3 hope the formatting isn't weird!!!

The next day, I’m sitting in the back of the briefing room, pretending to listen to Jack while he rambles on about choke points this and target priority that. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. Morrison’s aging voice is threaded through with a harsh undertone that tells you he’s spent his fair share of hours shouting. The newest agents are riveted, leaning in and paying extra close attention to everything he says. 

I shoot a glance over to Tracer. She’s got her chair tipped as far back as it’ll go, her head resting on the wall so that her shock of mouse brown hair spreads around her like a halo, and her long legs are crossed over each other on the table. She wiggles her fingers to me in a wave. I wave back. She rolls her eyes, making a loose fist and pumping it several times before inclining her head to Jack. I stifle a giggle beneath one gloved hand, my wings shifting and catching the light. Commander Morrison pauses for the briefest of moments, looking between myself, then Tracer, then back to me. We cough in unison, scrambling to look a little bit more put together, like schoolgirls caught telling secrets. 

It’s not like we don’t respect the Commander. He knows we do. If he says jump, we’re already five feet in the air. But on a mission… if you want to live, you listen to me. Tracer’s got enough experience under her belt that you’d be truly stupid to order her around like any other foot soldier. Our being here, at the pre mission briefing, is a formality, and we all know it. 

“... The end goal is simple. We get in, we get the plans out of the temple, we get out again. I’ve forwarded a map to all your comms. Any questions?” Jack finishes, his steel eyes scanning the room. A hand rises. “Anderson.”

“Are we expecting any Talon agents, Sir?” A young flame-haired woman says, sitting perfectly straight in her chair. 

“I already said we should be expecting Talon foot soldiers,” he replies. Tracer looks to me, the question dancing in her eyes. I sigh, standing.

“Jack, really,” I say, adjusting the weight of my harness. “Talon agents? It’s the perfect spot for Widowmaker to be monitoring the plans, waiting for her men to do the actual pickup. I suspect that’s why you assigned Tracer on this ‘simple’ mission.” 

Jack Morrison stares bullets at me. One corner of his mouth twitches up.

“Yes. We don’t have any intelligence as to the Widowmaker’s current whereabouts, but as a precaution, we’re bringing Tracer along. Anything else?”

The agents fall into an ice-cold hush. Widowmaker’s reputation precedes her. Tracer gives an exaggerated yawn, stretching in her chair.

“Don’t worry everyone! I’ll keep the situation under control.” She chirps. 

“Dismissed.” Jack releases the agents, who filter out of the room like worker ants. I gather my staff and overnight bag, throwing the bag over my shoulder and threading my staff through the sling. Lena blinks over to me, flipping her guns in her hands a few times. 

“Didja hear the part where Helix is gonna be helping us out? That’s rare these days. Pretty exciting! They’ve got those new suits and everything!” She bounces on the balls of her feet a few paces ahead of my leisurely stroll. 

“Oh? Yes, aerial support will be much appreciated, especially in Cairo.” I’m not really paying attention to what I’m saying as I step onto the plane that’ll fly us out to Egypt. 

The ride is uneventful, loud, and crammed full of fresh young faces. I focus on my reading until we land. A handful of agents rush to fetch my tent and crates of supplies the second the wheels touch ground. By the time I’ve put away my holopad and stood up, they’re meters away, standing out in their dark blue uniforms against the golden sand. I pick the furthest one I can safely lock onto and glide over the desert, righting myself in time to land on my feet from my short flight. The agent starts in surprise when I touch his shoulder. I give him my best, most beatific smile. 

“Getting things set up now, Doctor,” he says. He’s got a stack of smaller crates to himself, and I follow him as he steps over to thin air and sets them down as a hardlight table appears.

“A well choreographed display. I appreciate the efficiency.” I take one of the crates and flip it open. It’s one of the new crash kits Winston’s been talking up. There’s the usual- a electric cardioversion machine, prefilled syringes of atropine and epinephrine, breakable tubes of chlorhexidine, etcetera. I nod, closing the kit again--

Movement.

I have my gun out and pointed in the sky before my brain really processes the reports pouring in from my eyes. Half a dozen figures, flying high above us. They have what look like small rocket launchers in their hands, and they’re headed to the ship. No one else has a weapon drawn. A few agents are pointing and squinting into the sunlight, hands covering their eyes. The figures dive, hitting ground just outside of the ship as Jack exits, adjusting his visor into position. The Helix Security personnel. One of the officers turns, and I feel as though they’re looking through me from the other side of their helmet. They nod to me. I lower my gun.

“Doctor, come over here for a minute.” Jack calls. I slip my gun back into it’s thigh holster and head across the hot sand to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey do you want me to write you something? I will, absolutely, for $0.01/word. Contact me at dvas0ng.tumblr.com
> 
> Do you want to tip me, because I am still a broke college kid and you're the nicest person ever? paypal.me/mistcover
> 
> Comments make my cold, dead heart warm to the temperature of the sun <3


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